When the World Ends
by Pickzee
Summary: 500 years after RotK, Legolas is the only elf still in Middlearth, bound by a promise. When portents start signaling the end, he wishes he'd left - until he sees the most unlikely person imaginable. AL slash. Chapter IV posted.
1. Chapter I

**Title: When the World Ends  
  
Rating: R  
  
Summary: About 500 years after RotK Legolas is the only elf still in MiddleEarth, bound by a promise to the dead Aragorn. When mysterious portents begin signalling the end, Legolas starts to wish he had left for the Valinor until he sees someone he didn't expect holding the key to the world's salvation... if they can ever figure out how to make it work. A/L slash  
  
Spoilers: All LotR with a slightly AU RotK, and some of _The Silmarillion_   
  
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nothing is owned by me. Owned by me is nothing. I don't even own the title, it's from the DMB song of the same name.  
  
Author's Note: This is my first LotR fic, be gentle. In fact this is my first /real/ slash fic. *Kicks The Duke Diaries into the closet only to have many skeletons fall out. Shoves everything back in and continues* Erm... yeah. I'm still missing a beta (the last one ran off to Nepal to get away from me) so if anyone wants to beta my stuff I will love you for eternity.  
  
  
  
Chapter I  
  
  
  
**The sunlight shone through tiny pinholes in the lush canopy**. **The dots of light displayed Lothlorien as a pointalist painting, each sunkissed dapple adding to the beauty of the abandoned forest. The elegant city of old amongst the trees was utterly empty aside from the lone elf traversing the now delapidated system of causeways and apartments. The once proud elvish architecture had fallen into a state of disrepair, elegant banisters now a ramshackle hazard for anyone who leaned against them. The arial houses were splintering and littered with a thick blanket of soggy refuse. A few secluded structures retained their original glory, and this was where the Golden Ghost resided. At least this was where he resided now, he had been spotted in the woods just outside of Minas Tirith or on the outskirts of the Fangorn Forest just as many times as he had been spotted here. Never the less, whenever anyone mentioned the Golden Ghost, or went on quest to find the mythical personage, he was always said to make Lothlorien his home.   
  
  
Ne'er had a quest after him been profitable, all that was ever seen of the Ghost was a flash of champagne colored hair, or sapphire eyes in an otherwise uninhabited forest or his distinctive arrow lodged in the earth. Many a sad ballad had been composed of the mysterious figure and reasons for his hermit life. Some said he was a great wizard exiled from his order and hiding from arrest. Other believed him to be a shapechanger, while still more believed him to be an actual phantom who patrolled the woods keeping justice. But the most popular theory was that he was the last of the elf-kind, staying in Middlearth which the rest of his kin had sailed to the undying lands.  
  
  
The Ghost of Lothlorien, as he was oft called, was not just a fantasical hero dreamed up by young children and fostered by bards. None from this age knew him as anything more than a fairy story told to discourage children from woodland jaunts, but at one time he had been known to all as Legolas, the fair son of the elven King Thranduil. His part in the destruction of the Ring of Power was still extolled in tales of the past and had anyone seen the mythic figure, the connection would have been made instantaneously. All other elves had left at the end of the Third Age, sailing across the seas to the Undying Lands, and few of the race of men had such distinctive features.  
  
  
Legolas was extremely perturbed. All the portents were pointing to a great evil on the horizon, black witchcraft and the doom of Middlearth. What he had just seen in Gladriel's Mirror only hieghtened his uneasiness, and made him wish for the first time in half a millenia that he had broken his oath and gone across the Unchartable Ocean with his kin. _The forests of Mirkwood lay fallow, the trees felled and the soil salted. Minas Tirith was going up in flame as a funeral pyre. The great mountians crumbled to ruin, leaving the mines beneath bare, their treasures ripe for the taking. Hoardes of men were locked in the chains of bondage, as a cat-of-nine-tails lashed upon their backs. And a mysterious robed figure was speaking words in the long forgotten tounge of Mordor, sorrounded by arachnids of enormous proportions._ Only one line uttered by an ancient soothsayer indicated any chance of survivial and in the way of most prophecies it was not simply cryptic but also paradoxical; _You must hope until there is hope_.What was the use of hoping until hope came? Wouldn't the action of hoping automatically induce hope? Whatever it meant, it gave Legolas a flicker of hope, though it wavered and was oft close to being extinguished.  
  
  
The brush crackled, driving Legolas to retreat into the shadows of a ramshakle hall. He had learned long ago that it was easier to exist as a legend than reality, so he crafted an elaborate myth about the mysterious figure in the wood, and, disuised as a bard, told the tale throughout the surrounding villages. The story had grown in size and variations were told across all Middlearth, some startilingly similar to the truth. Creating such of myth had, of course ramifications, most notably the adventurers who searched for the Ghost. Half the elf's time was spent hiding in shadows, keeping the myth just that, a myth. He found it amusing how little men had changed since before his self imposed exile. Races could vanish, evil could be destoyed and man stayed the same down to the leather boot lacings.  
  
  
The man passed through the screen of trees, boots tramping over auburn leaves and scattered twigs, destroying evidence that the woods were inhabited by anything. His eyes perused the columns of trees with their pathes and buildings. This man was staying longer than the rest, scrutinizing every detail, but still never leaving the ground. If he strayed into the arial laybrinth he would most certainly see signs of life, footprints on the wooden walk, habitable houses, fresh cut planks of wood intermixed with boards smoothed by millenias of use. Eventually the man left, returning home to his family or secret lover, only the broken leaves in his wake belying his foray into the forest.  


  


  
Waiting several minutes after the man's departure, Legolas reemerged from his hiding spot. The sun was starting to set, casting long shadows that made the golden forest eerie in its silent glory. The shadows spread, cloaking the woods in folds of night's inky blackness. As the flower of Telperion started its nightly journey across the sky, Legolas retired to his bedroll in one of the less delapidated bungaloes, prepared for the barrage of memories that sleep would unleash.  
  
  


-  


  
  
The king was dying. Everyone knew but few had the will to admit it to themselves. Healers from all corners of Middlearth had been summond when those in the Houses of Healing failed. Elvish healers who had not yet left for the Grey Havens came. Still no cure was found. It was whispered between the healers in hopes that the public wouldn't know, but they caught wind of the king's state and the whispers became rancous cry. The great king was dying.  
  
  
The posion was slow acting, gradually aging the king's organs while his body still held it shape and his wits stayed about him. He knew he was dying, knew even before the healers told him. He continued his duties until he couldn't write for the wracking coughs. His stomach betrayed him, unable to keep most food down and making ill use of the food it did. His heart was weakening, he could feel his pulse battering in his chest, straining to circulate the blood one more time. Outside, he was forty-six, active and strong, but his lungs, his arteries, his bowels were aged well past ninety. When he first coughed blood he knew there was nothing more the healers could do, and that by Midwinter he would have passed to the Halls of Mandos.  
  
  
The king was dead. He had died asleep, in his lover's arms. His body was carried down to the catacombs with all the pomp and circumstance befitting his station. There had been no need to hire mourners, the grief of the king's passing had reduced even the most stolid citizens to a level of pure grief. Never before had death wrought such despair on the city. When the slab of stone closed over the tomb, people rushed forth to adorn the grass in front with flowers of white. It was not long until the grass was hidden. The public departed, returning to their homes and businesses, for even the death of the king would not stop the daily trade. Those who had known the king stayed behind and offered their condolences to the grief stricken lover. It was truely a miracle the lover wasn't carried to the grave as well, only an undying promise kept him from fading into the Halls of Mandos with his grief. He needed to protect the world of men in place of the king who no longer could. His tears fell openly as he left the burial site. The great king was dead.  
  


  
-  


  
  
Thin rays of morning sunlight dried the tears on Legolas' sleeping face. Every night he slept and every night he dreamt the same dream and every night he cried the same tears. By the time he awoke signs of the dream grief were gone, but he still knew that sobs wracked his sleep. This morn was no different. Legolas woke, wiped away any tears the sun may not have reached and took the spiral walk down to the terra cotta forest floor. He bathed in the glistening pool, rebraided his wet hair. He returned to his dwelling to retrieve his knives and bow, strapping the bow and quiver to his halberd, and sheathing the knives in his belt. Then he set off, riding the chestnut mare he'd kept in a hidden paddock. Legolas rode a convoluted circut about the surrounding lands, keeping a careful watch for anything that seemed amiss. In prior years he had slain scores of orcs on a single patrol, now he had not seen any orcs for months. This turn of events idicated only one thing - the mustering of a great host of shadow creatures. The patrol passed quickly and uneventfully. Soon it would be time to move southernly, turning his attention upon Gondor and the Rohan, but he would enjoy a few more weeks of relative quiet before facing the land where he had been subjected to so much hurt.  
  
  
His return to Lothlorien coincided with that of the man. When Legolas was midway up the sinous ramp, the man returned. He had brought a woman this time and she gasped in awe of the great elvish architechture of a past age. She extolled the esquisite beauty of the place for all to hear and the man whispered something in her ear. A high girlish giggle floated on the air, whether from his words or the tickle of his beard on her ear, Legolas didn't know. The pair became wrapped in a kiss and at that moment Legolas choose to sprint the rest of the way back to his home. As Legolas crouched in the shadows, the flirtations continued - sweet nothings, soft kisses, the lover's embrace. He could tell the couple was very much in love, or at least very much in lust. As he turned away from the forest to record the day's patrol the voices changed and Legolas could tell the couple had passed the wooing stage. Dropping his quill he thought back to a time when it was him being loved in that same spot.  
  
  


-  


  
  
_ I didn't marry her.  
  
Good for you.  
  
You know why I did it.  
  
Because Elrond wanted her to go to Valinor with the rest of her kin.  
  
No, because I didn't love her, I loved someone else.  
  
It's nice you're honest with your feelings. Why don't you go woo whoever it is you're so in love with?  
  
I'm trying to, but he won't let me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_  
  
  


-  


  
  
The memory floated in front of his eyes like was yesterday and he could have sworn he heard the conversation ringing in his ears. Legolas shook his head and went back to inscribing the day in his patrol log to soundtrack of the lovers.  
  
  


-  


  
  
When I die, promise me you'll keep the land safe, the poisoned king wheezed. In a fit of pre-mortem clarvoyance the king had forseen he would not live past the sunrise.  
  
His lover looked at him imploringly, You know I may not out live you. Why ask me to do this? Ask someone else, for when you die I shall die as well. He lovingly stroked the king's skin, revelling in how it could feel the way it had two months ago, before the poison began to weave its web of death.  
  
You are the last of the elf-kind on these shores. Anyone else I ask would grow old and die, and with his bones, so would go his oath. Make yourself live, if only to keep from breaking a promise to a dead man. We will meet again, but time will pass before we do. Please, the king broke off into a violent fit of coughs, please protect my people.  
  
I will, the elf answered, tears pooling in his eyes, for he knew this was the king's last wish. He strengthened his will to live, forcing himself to survive first tomorrow, then every day after. He dropped a kiss on the king's forehead, the slightly sallow skin creased in thought.  
  
The elf didn't sleep that night and he felt the king take his final breath. As his lover's soul travelled the road to the Halls of Manos, salty tears etched their way down his skin, pooling on the body that he still held close to him and had once held the spirit of the greatest king known Gondor and to all Middlearth. And the elf survived that day, and the next, protecting the race of men for many years, but on no given day was he happy, for he wanted only to be reunited with his love.   
  
  


-  


  
  
Legolas woke abruptly from his slumber. Never before had he dreamt that, for many years the memory of the king's last words and his death had been hidden behind carefully crafted walls, hidden from thought, concious and unconcious. It was with great difficulty that he pushed the dream back into the recesses of his mind where no tendril of thought could reach it. A quick glance at the sky showed it was far from the rising of the Daystar and Legolas slipped easily back into sleep.  
  
  


-  


  
  
The king and the elf lay together on their matress of goose down, with sheets of the purest linen covering their naked bodies. Their hands were joined loosely and their legs intertwined. A great sadness struck the king's eyes and he raised a hand to sweep several strands of hair from the elf's face. There is something I need to tell you. Instictively the elf stiffened, knowing no good could come of those words. I'm dying.  
  
I realise you're mortal and you will eventually die. But that doesn't mean you are dying. The Deep seemed to suddenly be erected in the elf's eyes within seconds, cutting off all emotion.  
  
I am truely dying.  
  
But, how? Why?  
  
The arrow in the woods, it was poisoned, it's eating me from the inside out. Everyone in the Houses of Healing are trying to see what can be done, but they don't know what to do. The elf clutched tightly to the king's strong arm.  
  
No! You can't die. No. No. No, no... The elf repeated the matra over and over again to himself, trying to convince himself that it was all a lie. The truth, however, swirled in his brain like whirlpool, sucking all other thought into its depths.   
  
The king hugged the elf tighter to him, drawing comfort from his lover's presence. Please forgive me for causing you this grief. I don't want to die. I don't want you to feel me die. I want to live.  
  
  


-  


  
  
When Legolas woke he was spent. He had felt more in those two dreams than he had in the last five hundred years. He ached for one long dead, despite his knowledge that he would not be coming back. The sun had not yet risen, but knowing sleep would not come again that night, he set about his morning routine, consumed by memories and shadowed by despair.  
  
  


-  


  
  
To Be Continued...  
  
  
A/N: After writing those dream sequences I wanted to just crawl into a hole with a full box of tissues, but that could have been the sinus infection talking. What I will say is that this was quite possibly the most emotional I have ever gotten over any angst I have ever written. Please review, I'm currently feeling quite depressed after essentially killing the same character three times.


	2. Chapter II

**Title: When the World Ends  
  
Rating: R for later chapters  
  
Summary: About 500 years after RotK Legolas is the only elf still in MiddleEarth, bound by a promise to the dead Aragorn. When mysterious portents begin signaling the end, Legolas starts to wish he had left for the Valinor - until he sees someone he didn't expect holding the key to the world's salvation... if they can ever figure out how to make it work. A/L slash  
  
Warnings: This is *slash.* If you don't like it, don't read. Also there shall be ANGST, and heavy emotional torture.   
  
Spoilers: All LotR with a slightly AU RotK, and some of _The Silmarillion_   
  
Distribution: Want, take, have. Just ask first so I know where I can find it. This way I can go Wow, look, my story's on a page that isn't mine or FF.net.'   
  
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nothing is owned by me. Owned by me is nothing. I don't even own the title, it's from the DMB song of the same name.  
  
Author's Note: *In the style of Monty Python* I'm not dead yet! *Martin Luther King Jr. Voice* I had a dream that someday my computer would work again. *Regular voice* And guess what? It is! Working, I mean. They replaced about half of my computer and it cost CompUSA over $1,500. I love extended service agreements. Otherwise I'd be paying the cost of a new computer. Thank you reviewers - without you I'd probably still be holed up in my room refusing to talk and having only caffeine in copious doses. ¡Oh! I'm writing a large majority of this on Yom Kippur so I may go into a long pointless paragraph about lambas bread or other food as a place for me to put my hunger.  
  
Review Responses:  
  
cherryfaerie: I had this clearly marked as A/L so don't say you weren't warned. I'm glad you like my fic enough to keep reading despite the slashiness.   
  
Snuffles2: No worries on the continuing front, I have several chapters mind mapped. Thank you so much for support during my computer crisis.   
  
Kil Krazee: The line is actually a complete original unless I unintentionally referenced - and the quote is important in the *looks at tentative outline* near future.  
  
judy: Thanks for the complements. This story actually hit me, because I was sick of seeing only slave or mpreg fics, and I wanted to write something different.   
  
Radiion-hobbitwarrior: I'm glad you like my story and thanks for the computer support. And no I don't think they have leg hair, but I could be wrong.  
  
g: I'm glad you like my writing style (my English teacher sure doesn't) and the concept. On the mortals/Halls of Mandos thing - Beren was a mortal and he went to the Halls of Mandos (Of Beren and Lúthien _The Silmarillion_). As for my closet, literally it's in my room (though it's impossible to see past the clutter) and it contains clothes and empty boxes. Figuratively it resides in a tiny niche of my computer and contains parodies of all types, one of which is posted.   
  
Noriel: Here it is!  
  
Angsty Elf Thankies. Angst shall continue to make up a largish part of the fic, even when things start looking up for our poor elf.  
  
  
Chapter II  
  
  
  
** The darkness faded in about him, a welcoming cloak of death and disappear. E'er since the death of his beloved had he worn it, but at times it wrapped tighter, stilling all joy that touched him. But through the wool he could still see, for not yet had he been stifled. Gleaming bough seemed to him, but shades of gray, blinded to color in his grief.  
  
  
The despair was a constant, and in that Legolas took comfort. As long as the pain of loss lingered, so did his life and his oath was not betrayed. More often than not he was almost swayed to surrender, almost allowed himself to pass into the encompassing void that was death. For years Legolas had bound himself to Middle Earth with a promise, but it seemed to unwind as a poorly spun thread. Reduced to matted clumps of flax was the oath now. It held no sway over grief and its train of death.  
  
  
So Legolas succumbed to the grief - his world became a palette of gray monotone. The world appeared as shadows.  
  
  
Though the tree and the shrubs the elf saw a foreigner. The man. He knelt over his lover, his body's hunched form and creased brow belying the grief that he felt. Pulling up the hood of his black cloak Legolas approached, urging his horse into fast trot The man's eye darted to the rider and muttered. What do you want?  
  
  
What grieves you so? The thick cowl hid the elve's features, making it seem as though the words were issued by a void. He slid from his horse and approached the man.  
  
  
The man regarded Legolas' black clad form as he strode closer. Are you death?  
  
  
I am not death, though it draws near to me and has long wrought its ruin upon my heart. Legolas knelt in the moist earth beside the woman. His fingers found her wrist and paused there, catching the pulse. Two punctures, both still leaking blood, sat on her upper arm. She yet draws breath, though her blood is tainted by a strong poison. If you allow it, I shall try what I can to save her.  
  
  
Do it, do anything as long as you save her, the man cried, frantic with grief. His nails dug furrows into the damp soil, as sweat slid down the slope of his brow in a slow moving waterfall. Legolas lifted the limp maid, placing her across his mare's withers and leapt on behind. The man took to his own mount, and thus they set off, galloping through the fading trees.  
  
  
Branches beat them mercilessly, scraping and tearing at their skin. Welts bloomed in crazy patterns across the man's face - Legolas' was well protected by his cloak. Golden Lorien leaves were churned into miniature tornadoes by the horses' hooves. The man found himself falling behind, the woods had been memorized by Legolas many years past, and the path they took wound through many thickets and turned sharply to avoid tree trunks. Fallen logs and swollen creeks created an intricate obstacle course. Legolas pulled up sharply at the tree which supported his talan, the mare skidding to a stop, tossing her red dawn mane in a violent sea spray. The man pulled up behind him, jumping from the saddle before his horse had even fully stopped. Legolas slid down gently, holding the woman lightly in his arms, beckoning the man to follow him up the spiraling path to his home.  
  
  
In Legolas' dwelling the woman was laid down and a fire was kindled. Herbs of every hue, were minced and ground, some mixed into a salve, others placed in the pot above the flame and boiled to make a medicine. The house smelt of brimstone and elanor. The salve was rubbed into the skin of the woman's upper arm in liberal doses. It was intended to draw out poison that still lingered near the wound. The mixture on the fire reached a rolling boil, and it began changing colors, first a light lavender, then murky green, finally resting on a butter yellow. Legolas ladled the drink into a crystalline goblet and waited for it to cool. Steam wafted out in thin tendrils, reaching for the clouds beyond the thatched roof. Soon the surface rested and the steam ceased, and it was then that Legolas poured the drink down the woman's throat. Instantaneously, she began to thrash and writhe, her body waging war with itself. Shivers wracked her body, as limbs began to twitch franticly and of their own accord. She struck out at everything and yet she hit everything in range. Her hair and nails grew and pallor stayed on her face.  
  
  
This poison is stronger than I expected, yet she still overcomes it. Be not troubled by her thrashing, it is the only way for her to stop the poison's spread and fight its death grip, Legolas informed the man. The spasms slowed until they were nothing more than a slight twitch. A healthy flush crossed her cheeks and her breathing evened from its shallow gasps, although she did not awake. She shall live, for her battle ends and she has not passed. The man's face shone as though with the light of Eärendil. For the first time, Legolas took note of the man's face. Sandy locks were tied back with a leather thong, showing red cheeks and full lips. Dark honey eyes sparkled with the precursor to tears. He wore a noble's tunic - crimson dye was sparse and fabric that fine, rare. A fine sword was slung in his belt, but Legolas could tell it had never been washed in blood. The leather on the hilt was as new as it had been stripped from the cow, and the man's hands were smooth from only ever wielding a pen. This was no mind for swordsmanship or battle tactics, this man had a skill for figures and facts.  
  
  
May I ask the name of my lady's savior?  
  
  
I am Cúloron.   
  
  
Cúloron, that is Elvish, is it not? By any means, I am Aran, duke of Aduindale. Should you e'er need my aid in any matter I offer it gladly.   
  
  
Legolas inclined his head in acknowledgment of status. When she wakes, she shall still be quite weak. You may stay here until she is well enough to travel, Legolas offered. Your aid is most welcome. Look, your lady stirs. Indeed, the maiden seemed to go through the motions of waking. When she awakes your lady shall be weak. I offer you the hospitality of my home until you are both well enough to depart.  
  
  
I accept your offer, though I yet have a question. Why are you so kind to us? You live in an abandoned wood, last inhabited in the third age, ere the elves left, and seek not any company.  
  
  
The elf took a deep breath and lidded his eyes. I lost someone... close to me to a poison. It was a horrid death. No one deserves that death, whether they are known to me or not. The only reason I am yet alive is promise, and I seek no human companionship because I desire none. The hood was wrapped closer about Legolas' face, so that not even shadows could be seen.  
  
  
Whose death affected you so much that you retreated to solitude?  
  
  
I'll start making a pallet for you.   
  
  


-  


  
  
Black shadows were etched into the mossy green of Druadan Forest. The branches hunched in around the trail, creating a great hall through the woods. The horses padded silently on the muddy carpeting of grass. The king had shed his heavy traveling jerkin and was wearing a simple, faded, black shirt. It was a leisurely ride through the woods, neither man nor elf overeager to return to Minas Tirith. So they meandered aimlessly through the forest, watching leaves fall and deer freeze before skittering back into the underbrush.   
  
  
A high whistle pierced the serenity of the forest. A black fletched arrow lodged itself at feet of the king's horse. The bay reared and plunged, however the man held his balance. Another arrow spun towards the king. A swarm of easterlings burst through the trees, swords glinting in the forest light. Their battle cry came out in a sickly rasp, each syllable a guttural screech. The elf drew his bow, and thus the first line of attackers was slain. The king unsheathed the sword of his kin, twirling it in graceful sweeps, that effectively barricading him from the war hungry easterlings. The might of the enemy fell before the skill of the man and elf, working together with a mastery honed by years of fighting back to back and the bond of lovers.  
  
  
The remaining assassins retreated to the underbrush, like the deer. In this moment, when victory passed over the small battlefield the last shot was fired from a retreating foe. Alerted by his lover's call, the king turned sharply, and the arrow imbedded itself in his lower arm, instead of stomach. To neither the wound seemed fatal, yet it would be the king's bane in times to come.   
  
  


-  


  
  
Legolas woke to a feeling that had been foreign to him for many years. Aran was shaking his shoulder violently.   
  
  
You had been screaming in your sleep, twitching and writhing as Adelaide fighting the poison. You called a name, Aragorn, I think it was, in your distress. I feared to let you dream any longer, it looked as though you would injure yourself with your thrashing, the man offered in explanation.  
  
  
Legolas checked his hood, making sure his features were hidden. I have been living alone for longer than you could know. I have had dreams far worse than this with no one to wake me and I still live. Your help was most unwelcome.  
  
  
The man seemed both abashed and arrogant. I'm sorry if I offended you, but I was acting as anyone would, when they saw you convulse so. What could have possibly upset you so much to lash out at me?  
  
  
Perhaps I was living in the past. Though it may not have been happy, it was a time when those I cared about still lived. The only time I can see them now is in my memories.  
  
  
What were you dreaming of then that reminded you of the past?  
  
  
Air rushed from Legolas' mouth in a low stream. The last moment with one very close to me before he was condemned to a death he did not deserve.  
  
  
Aran mouthed the words condemned to death' several times over before he turned away. So you hide away from society because of crime committed by an old friend and yourself?  
  
  
Neither Aragorn nor I were criminals. Legolas choked on his breath, realizing he had told a complete stranger the name of the most important person in his life. How does your lady?  
  
She woke while you yet slept, she walked about the room for a while before her strength gave out. I feel that when she next wakes we can take our leave of you.  
  
  
May you be safe on your journey. I must depart, for I am pressed with errands of great import.  
  
  


-  
  
  


The hour ride had brought Legolas to his destination - a small clearing in the forest, carpeted all in grass except for one large boulder in the direct center of the clearing. The craggy rock seemed to almost have a face, so worn were the fissures and bulges. Sprouting, fountain like, from the top was a great sword, its edge somewhat dulled by time and the elements. The hilt was carefully crafted of the best design and make that the world had to offer. The rusting blade still gleamed brightly, splaying light in between the trees. The name of the sword and its bearer were engraved in the rock in the near extinct Tengwar script. _Adúril, sword of Aragorn son of Arathorn II, High King of Gondor.  
  
_  
Memorial of one lover and the deathbed of another. Legolas leaned against the rock and waited, as the blackness began to wrap itself about him.  
  
  


-  


  
  
The castle at Anduindale was a massive structure, dwarfing all the surrounding buildings. Its walls were made of giant slabs of gray marble, smooth and sheer as the falls of Rauros. No enemy could scale the walls, and never once had the castle fallen when it was besieged. It was to this fortress that Aran had ridden at all speed, having left Adelaide with at a house of healing along the wayside. He would return for her the next day, but now there was the matter of the skulking personage in the woods. I need any information you may have of a man named Cüloron and another by the name of Aragorn who was put to death for a criminal charge, Aran demanded of his steward.  
  
  
But sir, Aragorn is one of the forbidden names. None has been named that since the third age and the passing of the great king. And never in my years have I e'er heard the name of Cüloron, despite the birthing certificates I receive daily, the steward pleaded.  
  
  
There must be someone! Search for any records of this man! The man strode away, slamming the door to his study behind him. He pick up the elven text that was lain across his desk and began to search.  
  
  
Gold Bow, what manner of name is that? Aran mused as his steward burst in, flushed and at a loss of breath. What news have you?  
  
  
No Cüloron has ever set foot in this land and as I said there has been no Aragorn since the great king. Here is a short text about the king, perhaps this shall bring somethings to light.  
  
  
The duke's eyes skimmed over the words, his mouth silently speaking the words. The king's consort was an elf? A _male_ elf?  
  
  
Aye, and nothing is known about what happened to the elf after the king's death. It was assumed he died or left for Valinor, but none rightly know.  
  
  
Tell me more of this elf, I feel there may be a great connection, Aran requested.  
  
  
The elf was a prince in his own right, heir to the throne of Mirkwood. He was renowned to be a great archer.  
  
  
the duke murmured. And his name?  
  
  
  
  
  


-  
  
  


**To be continued...  
  
  
A/N: What's with Anduindale, it was never in the books,' you're saying. Five hundred years have passed, borders, politics, and government in general have changed. This is a feudal manor area, that was established 150 years prior to the time of the story and is built on the Eastern bank of the river Anduin. And the OCs?' Just about all of Tolkien's characters have: A.) died, B.) traveled to Valinor. These aren't the last of the OCs, but I promise to make them as anti-Mary Sue as possible, so please don't flee.   
  
  
Review, or no Aragolas for you. How's it shaping up? I haven't completely killed it, have I? I always kill things in the second chapter, why should this be different?**


	3. Chapter III

**Title: When the World Ends  
  
Rating: R for later chapters  
  
Summary: About 500 years after RotK Legolas is the only elf still in Middle-earth, bound by a promise to the dead Aragorn. When mysterious portents begin signaling the end, Legolas starts to wish he had left for the Valinor - until he sees someone he didn't expect holding the key to the world's salvation... if they can ever figure out how to make it work. A/L slash  
  
Warnings: This is *slash.* If you don't like it, don't read. Also there shall be ANGST, and heavy emotional torture.   
  
Spoilers: All LotR with a slightly AU RotK, and some of _The Silmarillion_   
  
Distribution: Want, take, have. Just ask first so I know where I can find it. This way I can go Wow, look, my story's on a page that isn't mine or FF.net.'   
  
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nothing is owned by me. Owned by me is nothing. I don't even own the title, it's from the DMB song of the same name.  
  
Author's Note: This chapter is dedicated to Bruin - the greatest horse in the world, who really doesn't deserve to have West Nile. Despite the odds anything can happen, and no matter how dark it seems things can get better.  
  
I'm taking some (read: a lot) of artistic license here. I cannot remember how/if Tolkien described the halls of Mandos, so I'm creating my own idea of it and the magics there concealed. Just so people don't start yelling at me, I'm acknowledging that this was not borrowed from Tolkien, but my own ideas.   
  
Sorry this is late, aside from severe emotional stress of Bruin's health (he'll be fine, to anyone that cares, he just lost all the conditioning he just got back), and taking care of him, I now have two hours of fencing and homework (avoid Algebra II at all costs) and a bizarre need to sleep. Who knows where that came from, I never had to before.  
  
Review Responses:  
  
  
AntipodeanOpaleye - I'm incredibly picky when it comes to slash too, I've been traumatized by too many really OOC Harry Potter slash fics that I am incredibly wary of slash in general. Thank's about OC's, I try to keep them as cannon/logically correct as possible. I don't think I worded the age thing right in chapter numero uno, Aragorn is the same age as in the books, but I am referring to him in reference to regular human - which will make more sense as I get further into the story. So sorry to let you down. I try to update about once a week, but real-life (and AOL) has been kicking my ass lately, so updates are rather... haphazard. I'm right there with you about updating though, I can't stand when people don't update quickly and yet I have a story which hasn't been updated for almost a year.   
  
Mon2 - All good things take time and chapters and high word counts. Thanks for the stylistic comments, I constantly try to improve that so it's nice to know people appreciate it. And here is a gift from me to you, an update .  
  
Terror - Um... good review? You (somewhat) get your wish.  
  
Katja - Best ever? *falls over in shock*   
  
Lilly Blackstar - Thanks for the complement, and here's the update.  
  
Silvertoekee - Questions are answered in time. All in due time.  
  
Iverin Aduelen - Wow, one of the best you've read... I'm awed. The Galadriel's name was a typo and since spell check doesn't have LotR names built in, I didn't catch it then and obviously not in my very quick continuity read through.   
  
Radiion-hobbitwarrior - Thanks for the assurance that I did not in fact kill it. That is for my mind and mine alone for the moment, and you have the feeling fun will ensue because fun shall ensue.  
  
  
Chapter III  
  
  
**  
It is not yet time. I will send you back and you must promise to never make yourself return. Námo sat upon his throne of judgment, huge and powerful and great, cloaked in a mantle of black silk. His voice boomed and ricocheted about the hall, catching in shadowy corners and reflecting off the domed gilt ceiling. He was fantastic, more perfect than was conceivable, his shadow a magnificent train of black tulle. Black marble pillars supported the roof, stretching in long black ropes up to the golden sky. Gray slate floors and walls were a silent testament to the age of the place, their surfaces smoothed by many hands and feet. A stream of pictures showed upon the walls, a continuous spiral towards the ceiling, illustrating the histories of elves and men. Each picture was small, as large as the pad of a man's thumb and yet the walls were half filled with visions of the past. At times the pictures seemed to glow and change, but for the most part they remained still. The walls are not yet filled with your story, your fate not yet fulfilled, you have much more to do until you shall be allowed entrance here. The world shall need you much in the coming days, will you break your promise now, when you are most needed to fulfill it?  
  
  
Do not worry, for your sorrows shall soon be put to rest, and your heart shall have peace. E'er since Aragorn's death you have mourned - let yourself mourn no longer. Your memories are dark, see them on the walls, a circle of despair. Allow light to once more pierce your heart. Ere you enter these halls again you shall feel joy.  
  
  
I send you back now, though I know you do not desire to return. A light burst through, blinding any who were party to its brilliance. When the glow diminished the pictures had faded from the walls and the Doomsman of the Valar was left alone in his halls.  
  
  
-  
  
  
Legolas woke to find himself sprawled beneath the mallorn trees, the boulder crushed into the small of his back. His goal ran back to him, and with it the refusal of Mandos. Never before had the keeper of the dead prevented entrance to his halls. He had spoken of joy, what joy was there to be found here, amongst the fading trees that had once been filled with the light of many elves. What joy was there here, when he was the last of his kin - a race long delegated to myth and lore. What joy was there here, when all friends had left him through pain of death or through a chance at a better life. And what joy was there here, when his love had passed into the realm where only he was denied entrance.   
  
  
Legolas stood, grasped the sword in the stone. Blood dripped down the elf's porcelain skin, so tight was his grip. It started as a few drops of red rain, then became a small rivulet, and finally a rushing tidal wave. Down his wrists, down the rusty sword, Legolas neither noticed, nor cared. There was no perverse pleasure in this, simply a despair so deep he never knew of his bodily pain. He released the sword, and brought his hands to his face, the blood still upon them. He cried, the tears and blood mixing, creating pink tracks down his cheeks, the watery blood bitter in his mouth. And still he wept.  
  
  
-  
  
  
Inside the body a double helix lay, unfinished and key to what would yet come. All the twisted strands had been skewed for so long, and now they were suddenly being set right. All had been finished but this one strand which had not been complete before, but now would. Every second the strands grew closer to completion, but now they worked with a heightened urgency. If the body woke before this was completed all would be for naught. And awake the body would. For thus the powers had commanded. If this strand was not completed when powers woke the body, more death than any should see would be wrought upon he who deserved no more.  
  
  
The last piece snapped into place, a gigantic puzzle that had finally been fixed. A spark surged through the strands, setting the body aflame and the mind alight. For the first time in many years did real life flow though the body. Body and spirited had been awoken by the powers and now twas irrevocable.  
  
  
-  
  
  
In Fen Hollen he woke, bleary from a sleep that had lasted far too long. He did not remember this place, never had he lain his head down here. The first thing he noticed was the strange sensation in his fingers, the feeling of something crawling through his skin, moving from the end of his fingers to his head, feet, stomach. When the crawling subsided he noticed that for the first time in many years there was not the deep ache of the aged. He looked down at his body, shocked to see it was wrapped in funeral garb that was moth eaten and cobwebbed. What madness was this?  
  
  
-  
  
  
With white linen he had bandaged his hands. Legolas constantly itched and readjusted the strips, unable to cease his fidgeting. Since his attempted death unease constantly lingered in his mind. Change floated on the breeze, telling of the strange and unnatural. Whether it was for good or ill Legolas knew not, but neither gave him much comfort. He sought out Galadriel's mirror.  
  
  
The silver basin had tarnished without the care of its keeper. From the spring Legolas drew water and as it spilt over the finish it darkened, it seemed to become tinted glass, perturbed neither by the wind, nor by water. He exhaled across the water, and the glass seemed to frost then clear. He leaned over the basin, staring into the reflected abyss of dark sky and clouds like the hair of an old man, wispy and silver. The colors of the mirror faded out gradually, until the surface was clear.   
  
  
  
The doors to Fen Hollen shimmered into existence. Slowly they opened and a shrouded figure exited, its features indiscernible in the shadowed thresh hold.   
  
  
The statue of Aragorn that had been erected just after his death shone in its marble glory. Moss had begun to take root in the statue's small fissures, spreading in a fine lace work across its unseeing eyes and wordless mouth. In slow motion it began to crumble until all that was left was a pile of fine gravel.  
  
  
Hidden in a cranny grew a flower. It was purple, rich as velvet and more potent than the strongest Elvish wine. Nothing grew about the flower and it sprouted directly from the the rock face.  
  
  
Deep in a mountain a massive black figure, disfigured beyond recognition, sat on its throne of skulls and ribs, surrounded by loyal subjects. The many spiders in the hall were as gargantuan as the figure on the throne - automatically instilling fear in the heart of any man. Deep ran their hatred and strong their will for vengeance. No more would they hide in the shadows, when all Arda could be theirs.  
  
  
A vast army of men marched up the rocky slope. At their head was Aran, with his still unbloodied sword and rose petal hands. Orcs and dark creatures swarmed from behind the boulders, slowly eating away at the host from Anduindale until only the front line was left. With a surge the orcs leapt upon the duke. When the smoke had cleared and the fell creatures had returned to their haunts the body was in view. A thick ribbon of liquid crimson was wrapped across Aran's neck. Several arrows had lodged themselves into his back. Deep dagger slashes decorated his body. His back had been bent sorely out of alignment, folded over like a rag doll. The life light of Aran's eyes had been long quenched, since he took up the position of general, but now not even the embers remained.  
  
  
  
Quickly did Legolas withdraw from the mirror. A mallorn leaf fell into the water, disturbing the image, reverting the water back to its original form.  
  
  
-  
  
  
Aragorn stood back from his chambers, seeing the thin wisps of death winding about the door posts, calling him hither, back to the bower of the departed. He took a step closer and in that moment he saw the book hidden in the corner. Truly it was not a book, but a great tome, bound in cow's skin with brittle pages of velum. As he approached the embossed letters became clearer and he could read its title. _The Book of Days_ had the look of something that had seen many births and many deaths. So old was it that Aragorn refused to open it, for fear that the pages would would turn to dust at a breath of wind. He picked up the book though, stared at it for many minutes and then turned and walked out into the light of day for the first time in five hundred years, though he did not know it as such.   
  
  
The light burned miniature stars into his pupils, until he used the book to shield his vision. He passed through the streets of Minas Tirith catching the many disdainful stares his state of dress attracted. He turned into a shady alley, gateway to what was called Thief's Village. Thief's Village was contained entirely in several interlocking taverns or in a mile long section of unused sewers. As soon as he had passed into the perpetually dank Village he was accosted by prostitutes, male and female. He plowed through them, though the crowd of drunken louts to the staircase which led from the bar to the city's underbelly.  
  
  
Aragorn passed brothels, mercenaries, and apothecaries who carried anything but medicine. It was only at the end of the row that he turned into **_Mathilda's: Prophecy, Sorcery, Mystic Consultation and Remedies.  
_**  
  
The store was lit by tallow candles of many colors. Various herbs and other magical remedies hung in bunches from the ceiling. In a corner was a table with a pack of tarot cards, arrayed face up. A young woman, dressed for whoring, scurried from the back room. What is your wish, sir? Your future, perhaps, or maybe a magic cure for your ills? Maybe you desire something else, she squeaked.  
  
  
I need to speak to Mathilda. Aragorn's voice was harsh with unuse and his request came out an angry demand.  
  
  
The woman played nervously with her grubby locks. But sir, there has been no Mathilda around here for many years.  
  
  
The owner, Mathilda, whose name is on the sign! I must speak with her.  
  
  
The woman cast her eyes down and began to pull the loose threads on her shrunken corset. That Mathilda, the founder, has been dead for nigh five hundred years. She died only a few days after the Great King passed away.  
  
  
-  
  
  
Legolas urged his horse faster, despite the sheen of sweat already beginning to cover her body. She understood her rider's urgency and lengthened her stride fittingly. As the pair sped through woods and past towns, the world streamed by in a multicolored blur. The city gates were in view now, the first sight of civilization Legolas had seen for many months. The gray ramparts spurred Legolas onward. Noro lim, Mothnár, he pleaded against the mare's neck. Faster still she went, her stride eating the ground in huge gulps, drawing ever nearer to the castle of Anduindale. Sensing her rider's momentary hesitation Mothnár, slowed from a mad gallop to a controlled canter, only to be pushed into the faster gait once more.  
  
  
The stones of the city street clattered noisily under the mare's hooves. Upon gaining entrance to the city Legolas had slowed to a brisk walk, not wanting to injure Mothnár on the hard surface. Despite the sweat streaking her flanks, she seemed queenly amongst the pack horses and over-heavy chargers. A similar air shone about Legolas, though none could see beyond his black garb. The people allowed the pair though the crowd, watching them in wonder.  
  
  
A stable boy had offered to put Mothnár away, but Legolas declined, preferring instead to take care of his one friend in the many years. Her welfare addressed, Legolas battered the door, to be greeted by two burly guards, both with deep set scowls. I must speak with Duke Aran, it is of the utmost importance.  
  
  
The closest guard snorted. And how de we know if that's really the case? Ye could be hired te kill the duke.  
  
  
I swear on the graves of my mother, father, and lover that I will not harm your lord. Announce my presence to him, for my name is Cüloron and is known to him. He will grant me admittance to this hall, Legolas said. A guard shuffled off, muttering loudly. Minutes passed, plodding by like ancient mules. Pages skittered about the hall, through the arched thresholds and up the tightly winding stairs. Against the wall was a suit of armor that had, judging from its condition, seen much bloodshed. Rust was starting to form on the joints, the fiery orange contrasting sharply with the blue steel.  
  
  
Aran's approach was swift, his boot heels clicking rhythmically against the flagstones. Lines creased his face, wrinkles that had not been their before appeared. His cheeks were flushed with an anger born of great annoyance. His shirt billowed behind him. No more was the love stricken youth, passionate with fear for his lady. The duke stood before him, trying against the odds to intimidate his guest with his prestigious position. Ah, Cüloron, enter. Thou art most welcome in my hall. Come, we must speak in my study, Aran said, though Legolas mistrusted the mocking manner with which his name was spoken. I must repay you for your generosity and I found some items I thought you would enjoy.  
  
  
With a wary step, Legolas climbed the stairs behind the duke, wondering just what was being hidden beneath the chivalrous pretense.  
  
  
**TBC...  
  
A/N: Heh. A couple somewhat cliffies. Heh. Again I apologize for the lateness. Also I know very little about DNA and genetics, this is my own interpretation and will carry on through out the later chapters. Cookies to people who catch my references to non-Tolkien myths, legends and stories; some are obvious - some are not. This is going to be a continuos thing of mine. **


	4. Chapter IV

**Title: When the World Ends**

**Rating: R for later chapters**

**Summary: About 500 years after RotK Legolas is the only elf still in Middle-earth, bound by a promise to the dead Aragorn. When mysterious portents begin signaling the end, Legolas starts to wish he had left for Valinor - until he sees someone he didn't expect holding the key to the world's salvation... if they can ever figure out how to make it work. A/L slash**

**Warnings: This is *slash.* If you don't like it, don't read. Also there shall be ANGST, and heavy emotional torture. And violence.**

**Spoilers: All LotR with a slightly AU RotK, and some of _The Silmarillion_ **

**Distribution: Want, take, have. Just ask first so I know where I can find it. This way I can go 'Wow, look, my story's on a page that isn't mine or FF.net.' **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nothing is owned by me. Owned by me is nothing. I don't even own the title, it's from the DMB song of the same name.**

**Author's Note: Not saying a word. Just go read the chapter. Longer letter later. Alliterations are amazingly annoying.  **

**Chapter IV**

"I regret to say she is dead. Lady Adelaide passed away giving birth to her only child four years ago, during the second year of our marriage," Aran said. His hair had lightened from sun, and his hands had callused from work since he took up the sword of the general despite the pleas of his advisor. Now he addressed the diplomat with a tact that had not been present six years prior. The uncomfortable, yet required small talk out of the way, deliberations began on a land purchase.

"Are you ready to sign, my lord?" The messenger said, holding a sheaf of papers to be signed, as well as a quill pen. 

"I must confer with my advisor before this purchase is made final." 

"And where is your advisor my lord? Does he not always attend such meetings with you?" The messenger questioned, annoyed at being detained.

"He is on personal leave, he had a family issue that needed attention. We did not expect your presence for another week or more, otherwise I would have asked him to stay." Aran wondered where his advisor sojourned to each year, but was loathe to ask. He guessed it had something to do with his love from elder days. Old memories had no place in the present and the past had died, and nothing would allow it to come back. Aran had learned four years ago that pondering the past was sure to drive any man to madness.

-

Aragorn did not like this wood. It had been a vibrant place once, now it seemed blanched of true color and the serenity that had acted as mortar seemed to have been chipped away, leaving the rest ready to fall at a breath of breeze. The golden leaves appeared to close in around him. He felt trapped in amber.

He was tempted to turn back, he had never wished to return to this place, not since the passing of the elves. For Aragorn it had been a place of great joy, yet this too had been stolen. Since the Lady's passing the woods had been a foreboding image, for her magics were swiftly unraveling. Dark creatures encroached on its borders, held back only by the fear of what might already lie within, waiting for its next meal. Aragorn shared the creatures' phobia - these woods were too still, the winds too serene. He could sense a presence, but it, too, wascloaked in sadness to tell of its nature and such despair could be dangerous. 

Aragorn clutched the hilt of his sword, which had protected him through many scuffles that would have brought another man to his doom. He was forced to wonder why he had not suffered any wound larger than a shaving nick since his 'awakening,' as Maude had called it. What powers were pushing him through this life? Was it truly so dire that a man of Numenorean blood take up the throne of Gondor? The quest set before him, he did not desire taking and yet he was made to. He had found the first two artifacts required of him, now he needed only to find his sword from the days of old and he would have all he needed to demand his place as the rightful king of Gondor.

In sooth he did not wish to regain the throne, ruling once had nearly driven him beyond mad, to rule again, and this time without Legolas, would be a task no man deserved. Only the prophesying of Maude kept him upon this path. The path now leading him through the abandoned woods of Lothlorien. 

Ever was Aragorn wary of the Ghost of Lothlorien, whatever form it truly took. Be it elf, phantom or wizard, Aragorn had lived too long, and through too much to be caught off guard by a harpist's tale. He believed the Golden Ghost was in some form real, as all fairy stories were. He dreamed, perhaps, that Legolas was the Ghost, holding true to the boon of his passing day. Yet in his heart he felt that Legolas had died with him on that day. Aragorn did not begrudge him, the promise had been to give Legolas a happiness, he never had expected any great threat to Middle Earth, what he had wanted was a chance for his beloved to live once more, free of a dead man's shadow.

Fallen leaves, once a rarity in Lothlorien, littered the ground, and yet Aragorn passed over them without leaving a sign of his presence. The talans of old, he noticed, were decrepit and discolored, all save one. It would not be noticeable to the untrained eye, and it was hard for even Aragorn with his skills of a ranger, to recognize that this had been lived in lately. The resident had known how to track, otherwise he could not have created such a well disguised home.

With light feet and careful eye did Aragorn approach the great mallorn, taking on the persona of his old ranger self. Strider he was once more. The spiraled ramp was surprising strong for all the years it had survived. He had no doubts, something inhabited the talan, and he was curiosity bound to find out what. The walls of the building had been coated with moss, colored with mud, shaved pickax. The roof had been disarrayed, but not so much as to reveal the canvas cover beneath. Inside however was the most important clue. Many of the backwater inns had been dirtier than this. There was a pallet bed, several baskets of garments, and an ornate writing desk. More baskets held scrolls, and there was a whole room filed with just the scrolls. A bow hung near the door, next to it a quiver of arrows with fletchings in a bold green. The chair by the desk held the residual warmth of a body. A person had been here, and lately. Aragorn picked up the parchment on the desk, it was still covered in damp ink. Silently he read the words.

_//The duke continues to play at being a general, while ruling his lands. He knows not what awaits him if he continues upon this path. I have heard more dark rumors from the mountains, yet I know not the details. The danger has heightened since I first scried it in the Mirror. I do not envy those who live in the mountains, not only because of my distaste for cliffs, but because of the danger they will soon be living in. My heart yet grieves, I fear it shall never heal. I oft wonder how Aran has made it through since his wife's death. He does not seem to feel the pain of loss any longer. I wonder why my grief cannot pass as his has. Certainly a reprieve is needed from this sorrow of centuries.// _

The other scrolls were read and cast aside. Aragorn noticed how similar this hand was to his lover's. He saw accounts of the changes of Middle Earth that dated back centuries, back almost until the days of his passing, all in the same pen. Could it be, that Legolas lived here?

-

For years Legolas had visited Aragorn's memorial on the first of March. The most emotional had been six years past, he still bore the marks, a white line of scar tissue down each palm. The blood had been cleansed from the blade in less than a year, but the raw emotion still spilled onto Legolas' soul. Every year his visit was harder to bear, a bit of him being stripped away, 'til he was astrange sort of wraith, a slave to memory, not any mystical ring. 

He hated to admit it, but his annual return was partly in hopes of Aragorn returning to him. Legolas knew it was impossible, but he felt that if he mourned and prayed enough the Valar would take pity on him, and allow his love back. It could not happen - not while the seasons still progressed. So Legolas made other excuses to return to the monument.

He would return to his old residence, and scry, finding the futures of many, the futures that would come in a day or a century and rest in a bed of safety, where he no longer felt threatened by the shadows of cloak racks. Politics had always made Legolas ill at ease, even more so since the assassination of Aragorn. No matter how lush the mattress or how soft the pillows, his bed may as well have been made of rocks. 

The dark threat of origins unknown had not eased Legolas' wary mind. Shadows were sent to bring their master the elf's head and any orc was as the coming of doom. His dreams had been darker of late, as had the messages from other manors. He wished Aran would stay safely behind the walls of his castle and cease his hunts. Not only did hunting endanger the duke more than necessary, it cut down the game in the woods, game which would be needed if the castle fell to siege. And it would fall to siege, this much Legolas knew. He no longer needed to use the Mirror to See, for premonitions had begun to enter his mind without warning, striking as a dream in which he could feel, taste, touch. Scenes from these visions had passed in time, he remembered the sensation of existing twice, of knowing what would happen and yet being unable to stop it. 

-

The great walls of Anduindale, which had never been broken through, were rubble, and dark creatures swarmed through. In places where the wall was not yet breached, siege towers came forth in a mockery of how the trees of Fangorn had beaten back the hillmen at Helm's Deep. Inside the castle babes cried for their fathers, pudgy wine-stain arms gripping at their mothers' hair and dress. Between the barricade and the structure was a dumping ground for refuse. Bodies of men at arms lay scattered about as leaves. The workshops of tradesmen were charred timbers and scorched stone. Much labored upon crafts were now little more than piles of ash. The once proud city was now a flaming landmark.

-

Legolas shook away the vision, his blonde hair whipping out from the cloak of shadows, creating comet trails across his face. He had seen the vision many times and each time the cries seemed more desperate. Kismet was ever against him, destroying all he knew. From the inside to out he, also, was being destroyed. The sick feeling rose up in his stomach, and Legolas' lunch climbed its way up his throat. The bile lay on the monument, slowly dripping down through the rocky crevices, as Legolas tried to clean his mouth of the taste of loss. His ills were not of the flesh, but of the mind. 

Civilization had done little for Legolas, simply made him better remember his losses. Every amorous advance made towards him, of which there were many, made him yearn more for Aragorn. There was a time when he would take up every offer, hoping to feel something - anything - that would instill in him a will to live. After each encounter he felt only deep wracking guilt; Aragorn had given him so much, given up so much for him, and now he tarnished his memory with meaningless screwing. Legolas hated himself for giving into base desires under eloquent pretenses and unkept promises. He'd been no better than a man who visited a brothel while his family slept, telling himself that each time would be the last. He so wanted to pass beyond, into the halls he had visited once before, but it was denied to him until he completed the task set before him, whatever it may be.

-

The Halls of Mandos were cloaked in the darkest of satins. Its lord and lady wore raiment of black yet they seemed to glow in the darkness of the Halls. 

"He truly wishes death upon himself. His despair is greater than I believed." Námo rested his head in his palms. "Does he not understand that passing to this world would only increase his pain? To make him believe he will be reunited with his love only to find that they will be parted for many more years would destroy him further."

Vairë rested her hand upon the arm of her husband. "He can See, yes, but has not been imbued with the power to see everything or to see what he chooses. Legolas does not know that his lover lives."

"He cannot pass on without my bidding, but I worry that he is becoming unstable. If he hasn't the conviction to live then his quest shall be doomed, for him as well as those who accompany him. He needs to trust that when he sees Aragorn it is no spell or mirage. I do not believe he could do that now."

"Ask your brother, have him send a dream which tells of Aragorn's return and instills hope within him once more."

"Would a dream be enough?" 

-

Legolas knelt at the base of the monument. His eyes leaked with tears that created dark trails through his dust coated face and muddied clothing. The monument had been cleaned of the vomit and the stone was clean aside from a layer of lichen that covered the north side. The scars on Legolas' hands seemed strangely bright, like the glow of Eärendil on a moonless night. The plaque was deeply shadowed by the trees and the letters could barely be made out. The twilight filtered through the branches of pines and oaks casting everything in a ghastly glow.

The ranger watched the scene silently. To still be so mourned centuries after death, left Aragorn shocked. He did not want to interrupt, but seeing Legolas alive and so open, almost waiting upon his return, made him need to speak to him.

"Legolas."

The elf shot to attention, jumpy as a bunny in wolf's den. His eyes flicked around before resting on Aragorn. "It can't be. You died, I saw you. It was that poison."

"The Valar sent me back." Aragorn took a step closer.

"You're a mirage, or a tool of the dark powers."

One more step. "I'm neither; the Valar sent me back. They said my task was not done and that you needed me."

Legolas took his first step. "Oh Valar, I cannot believe it. You are alive and well and..." The tears started flowing now, harder than ever, and these summoned Aragorn.

The embrace was long, each gripping the other with all the might they possessed. Legolas tried to make up for centuries of loss, drinking in the scent and feel. Aragorn tipped his head up and leant in for a kiss.

-

**A/N: Yes, I am an evil person. What of it? Like the Alias/24 style twist with jumping years? I did, I tried to write in the same time frame as the first three and it started rebelling against me. I'm actually not over fond of the last bit, I'm not good at writing mush or reunion scenes. Or at least this reunion scene. And I am oh so very sorry about the delay, but this chapter hates me, I'd turn on my computer and try to write but I could barely get more than a sentence done. My attention was also diverted by this strange need to work on my private school applications since I have been given an ultimatum. Update time should improve soon, once the REAL plot starts. And three cheers to my wonderful beta, AntipodeanOpaleye. **

**Review Responses:**

**Katja - Thanks for the many complements, I aim to please.**

**Seelenspiel - So very sorry to keep you waiting, but real life calls and unfortunately takes precedence over fanfic. You got a tiny little glimpse of what it was like, and more will be offered in the time to come.**

**Radiion-hobbitwarrior - I cut the confusion and trouble, simply because it wasn't writing well. Or at all, I seriously wrote all of five sentences before realizing that I couldn't force twelve more pages of it. The past hasn't been forgotten, and there is this amazing little device called flashbacks that I will be using on a regular basis. And I must apologize about updates - stupid real life.**

**Mon2 - I'm feeling guilty now. Every review I read said something about update soon, and this was a far cry from soon. But wow... You really thought I sounded like Tolkien. *Gulps, falls over, goes into shock* Can you write a reference for me? Please?**

**AntipodeanOpaleye - Ah, yes... dragging it out... this chapter is incredibly deceiving in many, many, many respects. Don't take anything from here at face value. Thanks for the e-mail review (if I didn't thank you in the reply) I will posted the reedited 1-3 as soon as I figure out just how to get word files running on my computer.**


	5. Chapter V

**Title: When the World Ends**

**Rating: PG-13, despite earlier warnings, I doubt its ever going to reach an R rating. **

**Summary:  About 500 years after RotK, Legolas is the only elf still in Middle-earth, bound by a promise to the dead Aragorn.  When mysterious portents begin signaling the end, Legolas starts to wish he had left for the Valinor - until he sees someone he didn't expect holding the key to the world's salvation... if they can ever figure out how to make it work.  A/L slash**

**Warnings:  This is *slash.*   If you don't like it, don't read.  Also there shall be angst, and violence.  **

**Spoilers:  All LotR with a slightly AU RotK, and some of The Silmarillion **

**Distribution:  Want, take, have.  Just ask first so I know where I can find it.  This way I can go "Wow, look, my story is on a page that isn't mine or FF.net."  **

**Disclaimer:  I own nothing.  Nothing is owned by me. Owned by me is nothing.  I don't even own the title, it's from the DMB song of the same name.  **

**Author's Note:  You are forced to suffer through my "bloody awful poetry" if I may borrow a 'Spike-ism.'  I am _incredibly_ sorry.  And yes, I am drawing on one of my favorite myths.  I also must impress upon you that the journey from Legolas' home to Anduindale is a short journey, about three hours at a trot (eh... about twenty miles me thinks).  A slow gallop is about 15/20 miles per hour.  Just a little note in case anyone wonders why the distance seems to change.  The next chapter should be up soon (only two more pages!) and unbeta-ed copies will be posted in my fic/art LJ www.ceffyl_dwr.livejournal.com/.  **

**Chapter V**

            When Legolas awoke, he was still swimming in the pleasant mist his dreams had left behind.  He reached over to feel his lover's warmth and found it gone.  The haze cleared, and he searched with flashing, tear-filled eyes.  There was no indent in the grass near him, no garments or tools lay on the ground.  It must have been just a dream, nothing more.  Was Irmo so cruel as to lay this temptation upon him?

            His preparations for departure were swift.  The clothing and supplies were crammed into his saddle bags, the daggers and bow sheathed.  Legolas' possessions packed, he whistled for Mothnár.  The chestnut mare pranced toward him, head bowed and knees high.  The load was secured to her back, and it was then that Legolas paused to look back at the monument.  He would mourn here no more.  The grief wrought by his memories would be allowed to fade until they were naught but a nightmare.  The past would stay here, as Legolas moved forward into his visions of the future – and when his task was complete and he was bound to Middle-earth no more, he would die.

            It was as though in a trance that Legolas approached the monument.  He clasped the hilt and bowed his head against the pommel, its smooth metal a reassurance that perhaps, all was not quite lost.  He cast one lingering gaze at the stone as he departed, he would see it nevermore in the real world, though it was sure to haunt his dreams, and be present in his long lingering memories.  

            He swung atop Mothnár, and galloped from the grove, looking back over his shoulder the entire time.  Now that he was letting go, he was loath to release it, for the past had everything he could not find now, everything – that despite his attempts – he could not forget. 

-

            Námo sought the eyes of his wife.  "I feared this would happen.  He believes his dreams to be taunting him.  For him all is in the hands of Aragorn."

            "The threads of fate are twisted and coiled in many knots.  It is not always for us to untangle them; sometimes they must do it without aid.  Aragorn will not waver from his path, and all Legolas must do is find himself once more."  Vairë looked up from her weaving.  "All will not be in vain.  Put your trust in them."

            "I wish I could bestow my faith upon them as easily as you have.  If they do not unite, the end will come, for us and Middle-earth."

            "They will not fail."

-

            Having placed several scrolls in his packs, Aragorn was headed out of the heart of Lothlorien.  His destination was the small glade that Maude said was the resting place of Anduril.  He walked lightly, his hand ever upon the hilt of his hunting knife.  It was not his wish to fall prey to foolishness.  Every crackle of brush, and every sigh of wind startled him into action.  Truth be told, finding that house had made him more than a little uneasy.  

            He cut his own path through the undergrowth, rather than following the winding trail towards his sword and his destiny.  As he traveled he sang a haunting melody under his breath, that was all the more so as it was a requiem for himself.

"The ruler of our people was Aragorn,

And it is him that minstrels do mourn.

 A lament for the man who has died,

For the man of strength, valor and pride.

With mercy he did rule these lands,

Though he was ready with sword at hand."

            The song continued on in this manner for several more verses, extolling his virtues and despairing over his fate.  Finishing the morose ballad he began a walking tune he had learned from Bilbo.  Aragorn let his mind wander as he hiked through the woods.  Only when it was too late did he realize his error.

            The glade was spacious, sheltered by trees leafed with every shade of gold.  A large granite boulder that was certainly not natural lay in the middle, and from it spouted Anduril.  The sword gleamed the hue of a cardinal in the fading light, the same way it did after a battle when it was still bathed in the humors of those who had fallen before it.  Aragorn lay down his packs and the poorly hewn broadsword he carried was dropped to the loam.  He walked in wonder towards the boulder, before stopping, perplexed.  How was he supposed to get a sword out of solid rock?

            Before he could contemplate this, the glade was flooded with orcs.  Already the way to his packs was blocked by the milling creatures.  He was armed with a hunting knife, and two boot daggers.  The host that had encircled him could never be stayed by those.  On instinct alone his right hand reached back for his sword, while his left palmed the curved knife at his waist.  Anduril slid from the rock as it would have from its sheath.  With sword in hand, a battle fury coursed through his limbs.  The sword still felt perfect in his hand and with this feeling he launched himself into battle.

            Parry, reposte, retreat - all came to him without thinking.  He whirled away from an orc that had come dangerously close to dashing his head against a sword.  Even as he ducked another blow, he slit the throat of one beast with his knife, as he impaled another.  A disarmed orc sent a roundhouse to Aragorn's exposed jaw, and copper blood filled his mouth.

            There was no way he could finish this fight alive if he lingered.  Flight was necessary, though with more creatures at every turn, there was no way he could dash to safety.  The orcs fell in a crescent around him, creating a somewhat barrier.  Taking the moment's distraction he climbed atop the boulder.  Using his new height he scouted the two leaders and prepared to launch an attack on them.  They were the largest and had been adorned with the most weapons and best armor.  No doubt they would be hardest to dispatch, but without a leader, the orcs would scatter.

            The first line of orcs had climbed the boulder to be smote to the ground.  The bodies crushed their comrades.  Aragorn leapt from the rock, brandishing his sword, and ran straight through the host of orcs leaving a swathe of corpses in his wake.  No more did he worry about the captains, he had sighted his escape and was bent on taking it.  An orc blade bit into his side, but Aragorn continued his sprint.  When he was out of the woods he could poultice it.

-

            "You chose a most inopportune time to take a holiday.  Several emissaries from surrounding fiefdoms choose this time to come calling."

            "I'm sorry milord.  I had no idea there was business to be conducted," Legolas answered honestly.

            Aran snorted in a least regal fashion.  "And where, pray tell, were you that made it necessary for me to postpone all my meetings?  In fact you seem to take leave of this place at this time every year.  Where do you go?"

            "That knowledge is my own and that is how it shall stay."  Legolas smoothed his tunic, and flicked a small clod of dirt from his hose.

            "I am your lord and shall be treated as such."

            "My lord or ruler of all Arda, I retain the right to have my own business, and have said business remain unquestioned by any other.  Good day, milord."  

            Legolas stalked out of the hall, with all its polished metals and gaudy tapestry, into the fading sunlight. 

-

            He could not hold this pace for long.  If he did not wish to return directly into the hands of his aggressors he needed to keep moving.  Out running the orcs on foot was futile, they would catch him quickly and he would be too tired to put up a good fight when they over took him.  His only real chance of escape was on horseback, and he had no horse.

            Aragorn burst through the shelter of trees, on to the flat plains.  The first thing he sighted was a small settlement about two miles off.  The inhabitants were farmers, mostly, and farmers would have horses to till the earth, pull carts, ride on journeys.  They would be loath to part with the creatures, but they would not endanger their lives needlessly.  He could find a horse there.

            When he'd reached the village, a black cloud was breaking out of the forest and moving fast.  The orcs would descend on this place like dragons, burning and cutting, till there was nothing left.  He sprinted into what must have been the town square, for a great number of people were there.  They stared in surprise at the gritty, blood and sweat spattered man who came dashing into their land.  "Orcs are coming," he wheezed having not fully recovered his voice.  "They'll be here in ten minutes.  Prepare to fight or flee, their force is almost three score. They will raze this village until nothing but ash remains."

            "And who are you that brings such tidings of woe to this town?" a robust man with lank red hair and an equally red face bellowed. 

            "Naught but a simple traveler who fell upon their encampment in the forest."

            The red-haired man snorted, then drew Anduril.  "This is a fine sword, is it not?  And all simple travelers carry blades of this make and bear such injuries, even in times of peace.  A warmonger I call you, for you seek to create strife and instill fear where there ought not be any."  Aragorn's eyes lay passively calm throughout the tirade.

            "The wary rest little, and even then they are on their guard.  Too much danger have I seen to walk unarmed through strange country.  Will I be a warmonger still when this place is but a forgotten ruin?  I bear only warnings, not ill will.  Why do we stand quarreling when these orcs shall be upon you before the moon rises?"  He spoke with great conviction; the same tone that had lead troops into hopeless battles and brought them through to be victors.  "Return my sword, 'twas passed down from my ancient kinsmen and I cherish it greatly."

            Anduril was returned to the hands of its king.  "That be a great sword.  May it protect you through e'ery battle.  We shall flee from this place, few among us are fighters and none are ready to battle.  Is there anything you need?"

            "A swift horse and directions to your lord.  He needs to be informed of this."

            "You can take my horse, keep him if you like.  He's mighty headstrong and ill-tempered, but he has winged hooves if you can get him to go.  To get to milord's hall you must go to the edge of the river then ride north until you see the ford then ride straight 'tis not long off from there.  May luck ride with you."

            "And with you.  May I know the name of one who is so generous?"

            "I am Hamath.  Come, the horse is this way."

            They passed throughout town and everywhere showed the signs of panic, children screamed, animals pawed the earth.  The adults collected belongings and family, preparing to move out on an exodus across the plains.  Inside the ramshackle barn was a large horse with his ears pinned against his mud brown neck.  "This is Rúthsúl.  Nasty temper, but a good ride if you can settle him down."  He was already tacked, and as Hamath untied him from the hitching post, Rúthsúl tried to take a bite out of his shoulder.  "Be good.  Carry him safely," Hamath admonished.  "May we meet again."

            "Luck be with you."  With that Aragorn swung onto the horse.  Rúthsúl threw several bucks before charging out of the town, straight into the hoarde of orcs.  The host quavered at the sight of Aragorn charging atop a seemingly crazed horse.  He cut down several foes with one swipe of his blade, the stallion barreling over still more.  Rúthsúl reared like a trained charger, clawing at the enemy with iron shod hooves.  Black skinned corpses fell as rain, until their number was much reduced, a mere fraction of what it had once been.  Aragorn turned his horse then and fled for the river with all haste.  The miles sped past in a puree of soil and grass, churned under hoof.  The river grew on the horizon, first a narrow thread, now a foaming blue road, tossed over great boulders.  The worst was over.  He just hoped that the village was faring as well as he.

            When Aragorn pulled up his horse at the halls of Anduin, Rúthsúl was covered in thick white lather and Aragorn was equally sweat sheened.  A mottled bruise had started to form where the orc punched him.  For these reasons the hostler stared strangely at the Dúnadan as he took Rúthsúl to the stables.  But it was in the entryway to the hall that Aragorn incurred the most difficulty.

            "A right vagabond you look, why should I let you have audience with Lord Aran?" the doorwarden demanded rather rudely.

            "I bring your lord tidings, something evil stirs from the forests of Lorien.  Your lord needs to hear this news from one who has seen it himself."  Aragorn was rather annoyed; he had hoped to receive a somewhat more courteous welcome.

            The doorwarden huffed, "If you wish to enter with your news, show proof of your good intentions, which seems unlikely, or find someone in high regard of my lord who will vouch for you."

            "I'm a traveler from Minas Tirith, how could I find anyone to vouch for me?  And just what makes my intentions seem so dubious?"

            "You come wearing clothes worn to the last thread, a most suspicious bruise is painted across your face and you're coated in blood and sweat.  Since your arrival, your hand has not left your sword hilt.  And by whatever means, a man of good repute knows others of high status in other cities.  I suppose that these questions show that you are unable to produce either proof or a contact, so I suggest you leave, before an ill befalls you."  The doorwarden was smirking now, obviously enjoying Aragorn's annoyance.

            "If this is who I believe him to be, I shall vouch for him."  A previously unnoticed figure stepped from the shadows of the outer stair.  It was lithe and catlike and fair, though his face was hidden in the shadows.  "Hello, Estel."

-

**A/N:  Cliffie... hehe...  I feel evil. I wrote the last four pages of this in the car on the way to Boston while listening to _The Hobbit_ on CD.  This also marks the 65 page of When the World Ends.  Go me!  If anyone wants to do something kind, nominate me for fanfic awards if you know of any...  And yes, the horse is based on my own, except Bruin isn't a stallion, which is a very good thing.  And of course review.  Because reviews are my friends.  And so are reviewers.  And it's nice to be a friend. **

**Review Responses: There were two reviews… Yes, this is a pointed comment.**

**Gwendolyn Oakenstaff: Thanks for the grudging complement, Kris.  **

**Mon2:  I am an evil person, something that will be reinforced in both the beginning and ending of this chapter.  I'm going to need to invest in smelling salts if you keep saying that...  I'm glad you so eagerly await updates, but am very sorry that it takes me so long to post.  **

**Shards of Evensong:  Kill the EBET.  It wasn't angst that got her, it was the fact that I have creativity, potential and the ability to show her up in class.  Thankies.  Make cookies then give them to me!**

**AntipodeanOpaleye:  I feel your pain. AOL used to kick me off virtually five minutes after I got on because I had so much shareware.  Thanks, but I told you not to be deceived by the reunion. Hehe**

**Seelenspiel:  I'm continuing… It just took some time to write and my beta was busy, but it's here now.**

**Shinigami061:  Thanks, I was aiming for that.  And yes I'm evil, very evil.  You're actually the first person who got that… and yes poor, poor Legolas, things just don't go well for him…  Updates will hopefully come sooner now…**


	6. Chapter VI

**Title: When the World Ends**

**Rating: PG-13**

**Summary: About 500 years after RotK, Legolas is the only elf still in Middle-earth, bound by a promise to the dead Aragorn. When mysterious portents begin signaling the end, Legolas starts to wish he had left for the Valinor - until he sees someone he didn't expect holding the key to the world's salvation... if they can ever figure out how to make it work. A/L slash**

**Warnings: This is *slash.* If you don't like it, don't read. Also there shall be angst, and violence. **

**Spoilers: All LotR with a slightly AU RotK, and some of The Silmarillion **

**Distribution: Want, take, have. Just ask first so I know where I can find it. This way I can go "Wow, look, my story is on a page that isn't mine or FF.net." **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nothing is owned by me. Owned by me is nothing. I don't even own the title, it's from the DMB song of the same name. **

**Author's Note: I'm still writing in the car. Road trips make me very productive. The rune stones and the runes on them in this chapter are strictly from my mind. I have no idea if elves even used rune stones, and the runes are based neither on any of Tolkien's scripts, nor on any runes used by ancient peoples. **

**Review Responses: **

**Lana G – I try to update quickly, but real-life apparently hates me so all my plans for updating once a week are crushed. And thank –you- for reviewing.**

***NiCoLe – I'm a cruel person. But please don't go bald – I wouldn't want to be blamed for that.**

**Mon2 – Only a dream… but I actually like this reunion so much more… even if readers don't.**

**Katja - Thanks. I've been posting, abet slowly. I don't intend on letting this fic die anytime soon – I like it too much. Cliffies are fun to write so they usually come out well.**

**Silvertoeoak – Yup, I'm evil. And I definitely feel for Aragorn, sometimes it feels like that just being sick for a month… imagine being dead for 500 years… yikes!**

**Kandice – I used to dislike slash until I read a really good fic. I'm glad you like this enough to continue, and I posted, see?**

**Dieing Star – I update, really.**

**Seelenspiel – It's real this time, honestly. Legolas was watching the whole interaction between Aragorn and the gatewarden, since Aragon came galloping in. So he's been watching for quite a while and Aragorn's mannerisms are similar enough to pre-death Aragorn's that Legolas is convinced enough to address him as Estel. Thanks, that's what I was aiming for. I tried to make the entire theme/style of the story show illustrate both the character's personal decline and their personal darkness, so I'm very glad that it reads like that.**

**Tmlange – Thanks, and here be the next chapter.**

**Shinigami061 –Cliffies are fun to write too. But don't doubt me so much, I do have a tiny bit of compassion hidden somewhere in there.**

**SavvySiberian – Do you actually live in Siberia? They will eventually… after much harassment by the evil author. ^_^**

**Altatarilomine - Sleep depravation and sugar high? Sounds like me only it's usually a coffee high. But thanks so much.**

**Michelle – Everything being right is going to be a long time in coming. Thanks, everyone says I write like someone older than 15, probably because I read so much, but I'm still incredibly flattered when someone tells me that.**

Chapter VI

"Estel."

_Estel. Hope. "Hope until there is Hope."_ It made sense now. Hope had not been meant literally, but as a riddle. A tricky wording to confuse him. He felt himself a simpleton now, for having not figuring it earlier.

Legolas' musings were abruptly interrupted. "That is my name to some, though I have not been called that for many a year." This was Aragorn, make no mistake. "May I inquire as to who you are?"

"Do you not remember me? It is I, Legolas." A disbelieving smile crossed Aragorn's face.

"I'm sorry my old friend, your face was hidden and your voice seemed changed." It was true, Legolas was still cloaked in darkness and his words bounced eerily off the castle walls.

"If this enough proof that he is of good intentions and means Aran no harm?" Legolas addressed the gatekeeper somewhat hautily. He nodded and hastily unbolted the door, allowing the two entry. "I shall personally escort you to Lord Aran." 

"I thought you dead," exclaimed Aragorn when the guards were out of earshot.

"I held you in much the same light. I was with you on your deathbed, so excuse me if I am a bit taken aback at the sight of you in living flesh." Legolas shook his head brusquely before continuing, "I'm sorry for my rudeness, Aragorn,this is quite a shock to me. But why do you carry such grievous wounds? You must see a healer."

"My condition stems from the reason why I must speak to Aran. I was traveling through Lothlorien to collect Anduril, when I was attacked by a horde of orcs, though from what I gathered, this land was in a state of peace," Aragorn said. "The full story shall be revealed when I speak to your lord. I do not wish to tell it twice."

They passed through the claustrophobic slate halls with its dark wood pillars, making the passage seem narrower and more foreboding. Nobility reeked from every block of masonry, smoothly hewed granite that could not be found in any near quarries. Tapestry hung from the ceilings and the flambeaux were suspended from the walls with gold bracings.

"He revels in his wealth and status - this hallways screams it loudly enough. What position do you hold in his court that has his followers so in awe of you?" Aragorn asked stiffly. This most unusual reunion had sent both back to awkward conversation and nervous fidgeting. A swift sliver of pain lanced down his face when he spoke, and the still oozing cut felt as through a new forged sword, still smoking from the furnace, lay in it. Aragorn had endured worse wounds that went untreated, but he had been too occupied with some other matter of import to notice the pain, buthere, however, he found no respite in forced words and swift glances.

Legolas sighed, had his dreams been reduced to this, a passionless dialogue between acquaintances grasping for a topic of mutual interest? "I've been his chief advisor for the past six years."

"A rich lord's advisor? That is one thing I never saw in your future." This was issued with a sharp bark of laughter. The elf could not help laughing as well and soon camaraderie had made itself known to the pair. A tentative arm embraced Aragorn as it often had before his death. It was returned in kind by the Ranger. "There is much to talk about. After the audience let us seek privacy in your rooms." 

"Let us decide that after the audience." With that Legolas threw open an oak door. The expansive study within was cluttered with scrolls. Aran was bent over diligently, pen in hand. Ink smudged his hands and in the dim lighting he looked near to a ghost. He fixed Legolas with what he thought to be a piercing gaze.

"Legolas, who is it that accompanies you?"

"My name is Estel and I can speak for myself. I bring ill tidings. Orcs roam the forest of Lothlorien, armed and roving in organized bands." Aragorn then recounted the attack in the forest. "This is how I come to know of such news. As you hold power in these parts I felt it best that you were informed. What happens now is no longer in my hands. You hold the choice of action."

Aran's face creased and tensed, his eyes held a look of intense desperation. "This is a matter I must consider greatly. Legolas, you and this Estel are dismissed. Make sure he finds himself comfortable."

The trip from the study to Legolas' private chambers was silent, but for the soles of Aragorn's boots slapping against the flagstone. The chamber that they came to, though smaller than the study, was airy and well kept. A large four poster bed took up a good part of the room, and the walls were lined with bookcases. Though nicely finished, the room had no personal touch, simply the look of a fancy guest room. It was clear that Legolas spent little time here.

Aragorn picked up one of the books, flippingthe pages nervously before putting it down on the shelf again. He knew the conversation would come to questions about his resurrection. Questions he couldn't rightly answer. Before he could ponder it more, a gentle hand stayed his nervous fingers.

"I won't ask. Just tell me what you can. I'll take care of your wounds while you talk, it may give you something to focus on other than the pain."

He'd forgotten how Aragorn fidgeted when nervous. It was impossible to give him important documents, for by the time he signed, the paper was crumpled and folded into strange shapes. Legolas remembered how easy it was to read the man's face and find just what was troubling him. Absolute trust - that was all he could give - would have to suffice.

Despite having stayed in the company of magic practitioners for much of his life, most of whom had great power at their disposal, Aragorn had never felt his mind was bared to any outside force. So, he found it uncanny; Legolas easing his fears before he spoke them.

"Six years ago I woke up in company of the dead kings of Gondor. Not oath sworn like those under the Dwimorburg, simply corpses. I found that I too had been embalmed and made ready for the afterlife. I left Fen Hollen to find Minas Tirith was not as it was when I left it. I went to Mathilda's and found she had been dead for five hundred years."

-

"The owner, Mathilda, whose name is on the sign! I must speak with her."

The woman cast her eyes down and began to pull the loose threads on her shrunken corset. "That Mathilda, the founder, has been dead for nigh five hundred years. She died only a few days after the Great King passed away."

Aragorn had learned the lore of his and other lands well, yet never had he heard of a Great King. He told the shopkeeper as much.

"Never heard of the Elfstone? Why, the idea is just laughable. He was the first king of Gondor since Eärnur and the last king of them all. Helped save this city from the Dark Lord, he did. It's said Elessar, or Aragorn as many call him was the most just and merciful king to cross this land. But you've not heard of him? You must have been living under a rock," she chortled, her laughter resembling the braying of a donkey.

Aragorn shook his head, trying to clear it, but only succeeding in making the words ricochet more swiftly through his consciousness. "It does seem as though I have, doesn't it. It seems, in fact, that I've been living under a rock for the last five hundred years. No wonder I cannot recognize myself."

The woman clasped her hands to her bosom and gaped. "There was a prophecy, a prophecy saying that the returning king would return. No one ever believed it**;** it was issued by Mathilda, on her deathbed. Everyone thought she was rambling in delirium, but she meant _you_. She knew you would come back. I think you'd better come inside; my mother, Maude, is a far better witch than I, she can surely cast your fortune, see if you are truly the king."

Whatever shock had taken the shopkeeper had a far stronger grip on Aragorn. He had died. Essentially he was still dead. What had become of Legolas? Did he wander Middle-Earth alone, or had he passed to the West with his kin. The last, unspoken possibility did not bear thinking on.

Maude had been preserved by magic. She was old, yes, and her face belied that, but her eyes had a childlike twinkle her daughter's lacked. Strength was hidden in the feeble arms, and when she shook Aragorn's hand he flinched slightly at the strength of her grip. Even before her daughter announced his status, Maude bowed lowed, murmuring to herself, "hail the king, may he live e'er on."

She held picked up a bag that had been resting on the table, opened it and poured the pale, round contents on the table. "Rune stones created by the elves. Each is imbued with some of the power of the elf who crafted it. These have been passed down through my mother's side for hundreds of years." Maude picked up the rocks and placed them in Aragorn's hands. "Breathe on these, then slowly pour them on the table."

The stones warmed quickly in the combined heat of Aragorn's breath and the warmth of his hands. He poured them straight down, and they bounced eagerly across the table. On the charred wood the pebbles looked like stars in the night sky.

"This is going to be a basic reading, the three stones who most call my energy will represent your past, present and future in the order that they are drawn." Maude's breathing came heavily and her eyes glazed as she fell into a trance. As if moved by a puppeteer, her hands jerked across the surface until they grasped a stone.

She fell sharply into consciousness and began to study the stone with great interest. "In your past was royalty, kingship. You held great power, and even greater respect from those you ruled."

"You were told all that by one stone? I am truly awed."

The woman scoffed. "Be awed not by me but of yourself. The stones speak only the truth;you must have had great honor in the past if they speak so favorably of you now." 

Before Aragorn could respond the woman had begun feeling for power. Her trance was much shorter this time. "Death. It surrounds you like a dark shroud. You have come back from death and most of your old life has passed to death.

"And your future. It is the greatest and most terrible truth of all. For it what it portends always comes to pass, be it good or ill. Do you wish to know what the future holds for you?"

"I must know," Aragorn said with conviction, though his face seemed melded of doubt. His uncertainty seemed to grow as she picked up the smallest of the stones.

"The circle," Maude said with more than a hint of disbelief. "It means immortality. I assume though that it means you will be long lived, and that your memory shall exist past your time. For a man, no matter what his power, cannot be immortal."

-

"Neither she nor I ever found out why or how I came back to life, and it is something I would rather not dwell on. Every reason we thought of was dark and carried portents of doom." Aragorn was lying on the bed, a strip of meat across his cheek. He flinched as Legolas inspected the wound.

"The blade was not poisoned, a relief because the poison would be impossible to draw out now. It is worse then it seemed, cutting far into the muscle and breaking a rib. You worsened the wound by continuing to fight and coming here in such haste. You'll need rest to fully heal this wound." Legolas poured a liquid on the incision, that first soothed, then inflamed.

Aragorn ground his teeth together, hissing at the sensation. "Are you sure that was entirely necessary?"

"It cleans and kills infection," the elf stated. He dabbed at the solution with a clean linen sheet, carrying it away. A fresh bandage was wrapped tightly around the wound, the white cloth a sharp contrast with Aragorn's sun-bronzed skin. 

"I'm sorry."

Aragorn's words hung like smog in the air. "What have you to be sorry for?" Legolas questioned.

Clasping Legolas' hand in his, Aragorn sucked in a deep breath. "I'm sorry. Sorry for making you live here alone for five hundred years, estranged from your own kin, befriended only by memories. You never deserved that. I'm regret asking you to protect this sorry world in my stead. Forgive me."

"No, you must forgive me. I was wrong to think you would never return, to think all was lost." Legolas smoothed Aragorn's matted hair, freeing the strands from their knots. "Rest." He leant over the man's brow and placed upon it a light kiss.

Sleep came quickly to Aragorn, his breath slowed to relaxed puffs of air. Crossing his hands, Legolas lay them on Aragorn's breast. "I place my trust in you. And I have no will to reclaim my heart from you." As he lay back, the pillow became slick with tears.

-

**A/N: Hey, lookee, it's not a cliff hanger!**


End file.
